


Mismatched

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dramione Duet 2019, F/M, Forced Marriage, Forced Partnership, Magical Theory, Romance, marriage law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-22 12:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21302222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: Brought together by the Ministry of Magic’s Marriage Law, Draco and Hermione work together to undermine the edict and subvert their arranged marriage while most decidedlynotfalling in love in the process.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 74
Kudos: 411
Collections: Round 11 2019





	Mismatched

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mister_otter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mister_otter/gifts).

> I cannot describe to you my anxiety in signing up for this fest. What if I had no idea what to do with the prompts? What if none of them spoke to me? Then, Ningloreth sent the assignments. Dearest Duet partner, you may be my fanfic soulmate. Could there have been more perfect prompts? Could your kinks and squicks have aligned more perfectly with what I like to write? No, they could not have. You’re an angel, and I can’t wait to find out who you are so that I can fangirl all over you (assuming, of course, that I haven’t already done so.) I hope you like this. <3 
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful alpha, dormiensa, for keeping my magical theory in check and helping me amp up the UST. Thank you to my beta, eilonwy, for her help with the final grammatical polish and confidence boost. All remaining errors are my own. 
> 
> **Prompts**:  
1\. A fun romp in the spirit of “A Midsummer Night's Dream,” with autumn themes instead.  
2\. Draco and Hermione share an unusual and unexpected interest that brings them together.  
3\. 'Partners in crime' of any type—paired for school, work, scavenger hunt, or actual partners solving a mystery (or maybe creating one) :)

**Mismatched**

And yet, to say the truth, reason and  
love keep little company together now-a-days; the  
more the pity that some honest neighbours will not  
make them friends.  
\- _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_, William Shakespeare

_June 30_

Until now, Hermione Granger had never hated her wand.

She remembered with perfect clarity the day it had chosen her. Professor McGonagall had escorted her and her parents to Diagon Alley, a bustling high street that chirped, squawked, banged, and hissed. Her mother’s hand had gripped her own, tight and clammy with nerves. Her father’s hand had rested on her shoulder, firm. Ready, if needed, to pull her from the dangerous unknown and back to the safety of her _before_ life, where she had been a precocious child and not a burgeoning witch.

Hermione’s uncertainty had vanished the moment she set foot in Ollivander’s shop, when a box had leapt off the shelf and landed at her feet, much to the proprietor’s delight. Handling her vine wood wand for the first time had felt like seeing the ocean. The world had spread before her, vast and limitless. When Ollivander had told her of her wand’s dragon heartstring core, shifting mythology to reality in the span of five words, Hermione felt like she could soar.

A new life had chosen her, and she was determined to prove herself worthy of it.

Even through the trials of Hogwarts and the trauma of war, Hermione had never considered renouncing her wand. She was smarter than the blood prejudice that had stained her childhood memories. She was stronger than the obstacles powerful people had placed before her. She was certain of her magic, confident in herself, and felt destined for greatness. She could solve any problem, discover any solution.

Until now.

“Ms. Granger?”

She accepted her wand with numb fingers, more instinct than conscious decision. Her mind felt stuck, snagged on the pronouncement like a knit jumper on a jagged nail. One hard pull threatened to undo her.

“That can’t be right. You must’ve made a mistake.”

Molly Weasley’s sharp objection broke the silence. Hermione tried to match her bearing—back straight, expression unyielding, gaze steady and sure—and felt some of her control return. They hadn’t always gotten along, but Hermione had needed a mother, a mother who remembered her, and Molly hadn’t flinched. She wasn’t alone; someone was willing to fight for her.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever made,” replied Garrick Ollivander. He’d put on some weight since Hermione had last seen him at Shell Cottage. He looked old but healthy, his mind as keen as ever. “Per my analysis, Ms. Granger and Mr. Malfoy, as unlikely as it may seem, have compatible magics: the devotion of the unicorn core and the strength of the heartstring; the versatility of hawthorn and the vision of vine. There may be other matches for these two wands, but the Ministry tasked me with finding the best match. This _is_ the best match.”

Molly scoffed. “Narcissa, you can’t possibly accept this.”

“I support the Ministry’s effort to eliminate blood prejudice however it sees fit.” Narcissa Malfoy recited the answer as if reading from a script, but what she lacked in passion, she made up for in conviction. She turned to the Ministry official, a slight man with thick-framed glasses named Herb Connelley. “What are the terms?”

Herb passed Narcissa his open scroll. “To remain in compliance with the Magical Being Preservation Act, matched individuals must wed before the year’s end. The wedding must be magically and legally binding. The date, venue, and flavor of cake are up to you.”

Five sets of eyes turned to him. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable, as the joke fell flat.

“I assume the Malfoys have a particular marriage rite that you would like to use?”

“Yes,” Narcissa answered. “The rite will be performed on Malfoy grounds, and I will act as their binder. You’ll find it’s already been Ministry certified. I can provide documentation, if required.”

“No need,” Herb said. “It’s already in Mr. Malfoy’s file.”

“Very good,” Narcissa said with a nod. “Additionally, the ceremony is private. There will be no guests.” Her eyes cut to Molly. “This is non-negotiable.”

Molly leaned forward. “If you think I’m going to send this girl into the _snake pit_ with no one to stand for her—”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Weasley.” Hermione touched Molly’s arm in reassurance. The law was clear, the end result the same regardless of the means. The presence or absence of guests meant little in comparison. “When the time comes, I can stand for myself.”

Molly’s fearsome expression softened; perhaps she, too, recognized the argument’s inanity. “Of course you can, dear.”

“Maybe we should give these two a few minutes alone?” Herb suggested. “They may want to discuss some of the details before anything is signed.”

Four chairs scraped against the floor, and the door clicked closed. Silence fell like a weighted curtain.

Hermione didn’t want to look at him, but sitting at his opposite in an otherwise bare conference room gave her few alternatives. When she did allow her eyes to skip over him, she realized that the feeling was mutual.

Draco stared steadfastly at his hands. His year in Azkaban had thinned him, sharpening his cheekbones and jawline. The difference was striking: now in her early 20s, Hermione looked and felt much like she had in her repeated 7th year at Hogwarts. Draco, however, looked fully adult, world-weary and tired. Bags ringed his eyes, and he sat with shoulders slumped. If her math was correct, his year of house arrest had started just one month ago. About the same time she had returned from Australia without her parents.

They were both adjusting to new circumstances, then. A government-mandated union was the last thing either of them needed.

“I don’t want to marry you.”

His eyes shot to hers. “Like you’re such a catch.”

Despite the insult, she grinned. “At least we’re on the same page.”

“Can you get out of it?”

Hermione shook her head. “Doubtful. They wouldn’t budge for Harry—”

“Didn’t Potter marry Weasley?”

“Yes, but he and Ginny married before the Ministry passed the law. They were grandfathered in. Harry asked on behalf of Ron, but they didn’t change his assignment.”

“Who got stuck with Weasley?”

“Lisa Turpin. She was a Ravenclaw in our year.” Draco shook his head; Hermione continued. “I hardly knew her, either. Luna says she’s nice, for all that’s worth, and Ron doesn’t seem too put out now that he’s gotten to know her.”

She trailed off, a miserable life with Draco as threatening as a storm on the horizon.

“We need to find a way out of this,” she said. “A loophole, a caveat… _Something_.”

“You think we can?”

“I think we need to try. What is a Malfoy marriage, anyway?”

“Not sure, never been to one.”

She scowled at him. “Don’t be a prat.”

He scowled right back. “Didn’t you hear Mother? No guests. And I’m not exactly swimming in relatives who are matrimonial material.”

“You don’t even have a guess?”

“Probably a blood rite,” he said, leaning back against the chair rails and crossing his arms. “Might need to be on a solar festival, or during the right lunar phase. I’m not sure.”

“What if we can game it?”

His eyes flicked to hers again, a spark of interest making him sit a little taller. “What?”

“The Ministry said it was up to us. What if we hold it on the wrong day or perform the spell incorrectly? What if we make it so that the rite doesn’t take?”

“It would prove their magical compatibility theory to be dragon shite,” Draco said with a considering nod. “We would be free.”

“Or matched again.”

“But not to each other.” Draco unfolded his arms and leaned forward. “It might be our only chance.”

“We need to learn everything we can about this rite.”

“The manor’s library might have something on it. Come over tomorrow, and we can draw up a strategy.”

She nodded, setting aside the curious sensation of being invited to Malfoy Manor for later analysis. “We need to keep this secret. If the Ministry knew we were sabotaging their plan, then we’d be forced into it regardless. But a quirk of the magic?”

Draco leaned back in his chair once more and finished the thought: “That can’t be helped.”

* * *

_July 1_

Hermione Apparated to Wiltshire just before noon the following day, arriving at a pair of enormous, wrought-iron gates. Malfoy Manor loomed in the distance, a dark, foreboding structure even the sunshine and summer heat. There was no place to knock, and she didn’t see a doorbell. Then, she didn’t have to worry: Draco appeared with a loud _crack_. He waved the gates open.

“You’re early.”

“Just by a minute.”

“Worried you wouldn’t find it?”

She had been, but didn’t bother with a rejoinder. Just lifted her chin and stepped across the property line. Goosebumps lifted across her skin as the wards shimmered around her. They walked abreast down a grey, gravel path lined with tidy hedgerows, the well-manicured lawns spreading like a lush, verdant carpet to either side.

“What have you been able to find?” she asked.

“In the night you’ve given me? Nothing.”

“And your mother?”

He gave her a sideways look. “What about her?”

“Does she know?”

“That we plan to subvert the Ministry? No. She’s not in any position to cross them.”

“But—”

Draco stopped to face her squarely, and the blunt honesty in his eyes dragged her to a standstill.

“The reason they’ve left her alone is because of what she did for Potter. I won’t have her implicated.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. She didn’t think him capable of caring about anyone other than himself. To find out that she’d been mistaken was surprising. Almost pleasant.

“I understand, and I don’t want to make trouble for her. But considering she married into the Malfoy family and offered to be our binder, it’s reasonable to assume that she might have some insight into what we can expect. I think it’s safe for us to ask her some questions.”

After a moment of thought, he relented.

“Let me do the talking,” he said. “She’ll be suspicious, and I’m used to her methods of manipulation. She’ll get less out of me.”

He started back down the gravel path; Hermione followed. She didn’t know the Malfoy matriarch well. Her initial impression was of a quiet, severe woman who knew how to turn her sails with the wind. Hermione knew her sisters much better: a psychopath and a rebel, neither to be underestimated. If all three women were cut from the same cloth, then Draco’s resilience might not be much better than Hermione’s, familiarity be damned.

Narcissa greeted them at the door, hands interlaced, back held stiff and straight.

“Welcome to Malfoy Manor, Ms. Granger. I know your first visit was not under ideal circumstances.”

Neither was this one. She had five months to discover a way around the Ministry’s Marriage Law. The consequences of failure were steep.

“But I hope that, in time, you will consider the manor your home.”

Unlikely, but Hermione held her tongue.

“Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“Narcissa, please.”

“Considering our circumstances,” she said with a glance at Draco, “we were hoping we could ask you a few questions about what we can expect.”

Narcissa’s smile was tight.

“Of course. Perhaps over tea on the rear veranda?”

* * *

_July 7_

On her second visit, Hermione arrived via Floo. Draco waited for her, somewhat formally, in his study. The room was comfortable, though smaller than she expected, dominated by a massive mahogany desk set before a pair of floor-to-ceiling windows. He gestured her to a two-person table that hadn’t been there last week. It was wedged into the corner and set with lunch.

She gave him a sharp look. “This isn’t a date.”

His neutral expression fell into a familiar scowl. “This isn’t from me.”

Heat crawled up her neck and into her cheeks. “Narcissa.”

A stiff nod.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_. This isn’t going to be some forced partnership romance, Granger. I’m not interested in you.”

“Good, because I’m not interested in you, either. You think that changed in a week?”

“You apparently did.”

She took a steadying breath. “Okay, let’s level-set here, shall we?” She held up a finger. “One: our distaste for one another is mutual and eternal.”

“Agreed.”

“Two: the Ministry is off its bloody rocker to think that we could ever be compatible, regardless of whatever arcane wand analysis Ollivander performed.”

“Obviously.”

“Three: this partnership lasts until we find a way out of this disastrous union, after which we will live our separate lives.”

“Does that even need to be restated? It’s the explicit goal.”

“We’re setting boundaries,” she reminded him through clenched teeth. “Anything to add?”

“Yes. The faster we can find a way through this, the happier I’ll be.”

“You can be happy?”

Another scowl.

“Let’s make this a working lunch,” she suggested. She withdrew quill and parchment from her bag and sat, helping herself to half a turkey sandwich. “I have some ideas.”

“Shocking.” He sat across from her and served himself salad.

“From your mother’s description, I think we can target three areas for sabotage: timing, blood, and process. First, timing. Your parents were married on Midsummer at midday. It seems too intentional to be coincidental, but we need more data. When were your grandparents married?”

Draco shrugged.

“Great-grandparents?”

“If I don’t know about my grandparents, how the hell would I know about my _great_-grandparents?”

She blinked; it was a fair point.

“Do you have a family history?”

An incredulous look.

“Do you have a family history that I’m allowed to read?” she clarified.

“Sure.”

“There’s no need to be difficult, you know.”

“Says the cauldron to the kettle.”

This earned him a glare.

“Second,” she said, “is blood. The exchange of blood seems to be important. Why? What’s the significance behind it?” She paused. The silence stretched.

“Are you waiting for an answer?”

“Are you the git who flaunted his _pure_ blood in my face for my entire childhood?”

He stood, arm extended, finger pointing at the Floo.

“Out.”

“_What_?”

“I won’t stand being insulted in my own home. I’ve tried to be civil—”

“You’ve never _once_ tried to be civil!”

“We need a way out of this, but I don’t deserve your abuse.”

Hermione shot to her feet. “Neither did I! My entire childhood, I knew I was different. Then I find out _why_ I’m different, come to Hogwarts expecting to find somewhere I belong, only to discover that, to some, I’m _still_ different in a way I can’t control or help. So excuse me for being prickly around you, Malfoy, but I think I’ve earned the right!”

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line. Color flared high on his cheekbones, and his eyes shone silver. She curled her fist, tempted beyond reason to hit him. Instead, she took another quelling breath.

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to sound genuine. “We have a lot to figure out and not much time to do it. We need to work together. Maybe we’ll try again next week.”

She grabbed her bag but stopped when he caught her wrist. His hand was warm. She paused, and he let her go.

“Stay, Granger. I’m… I don’t believe…” She read conflict across his furrowed brow and in the creases around his mouth. “I’m not that person anymore. I’m sorry.”

He sounded sincere. For a moment, she almost believed he was. But the notion of a redeemed Draco Malfoy—the idea that her childhood bully was capable of self-reflection, let alone remorse—was too far-fetched to believe outright.

“It’s fine,” she said, even though it wasn’t. One apology for a decade of abuse was not enough, but if it got them through lunch, then she would take it. She dropped her bag and retook her seat.

“I’ll take the blood research,” he offered, voice pitched low.

“Thank you.” She couldn’t meet his eyes as she wrote his name next to the topic. “Finally, we should look at the process. Narcissa mentioned a spell. Do you think she’d tell you the incantation?”

“I’m not sure there is one.”

“But she’ll be the one to cast it?”

He shrugged. “I’ll talk to her. Maybe the Ministry library has something on magical marriages.”

“I’ll check.”

“After lunch, would you like to see the library?”

“I’d like to see it now.” She didn’t have much of an appetite.

Draco nodded and stood, seeming equally grateful for the prospect of independent research. “Follow me.”

* * *

_August 4_

For several weeks, Hermione had been working through the Malfoy family history. Armand Malfoy had started the archive sometime in the 1070s, after finishing the first iteration of Malfoy Manor. In it was recorded every Malfoy marriage, dalliance, birth, and death.

The old, leather book had creaked and groaned the first time she’d eased it open. It was as long as her arm, a hand-length thick, and written in such a flourished script that it had taken several hours for her eyes to adjust to it. She was about halfway through, flipping the pages carefully, scanning for marriage dates, and noting them on her parchment. So far, almost all weddings had been held at the same time: Beltane—May first—at midday.

The exceptions were rare and peculiar in a way she didn’t understand. In these cases, both spouses’ names were listed, but any children they bore had both last names. _Evelynn Dalton Malfoy. Gabriel Berger Malfoy_. Those children’s names never appeared again. No future entries for their own marriages or affairs, just a death date next to their names.

Footsteps sounded behind her.

“It’s curious,” Hermione said over her shoulder. “These entries for couples who weren’t married on Beltane.” She slid the book to her right. “Do you know—”

She startled as Narcissa leaned down to examine the page.

“They weren’t virgins,” she said after a moment. “Close your mouth, dear. You’re not really surprised.”

“But how… Why…”

“Draco didn’t tell you?”

Hermione shook her head. Narcissa grinned, looking like a cat who had eyed a plump canary.

“The Malfoys have always been very particular about lineage,” she explained. “At first, it was for strategic purposes. Family loyalty would always trump religious or political affiliation, so it was helpful to know exactly _who_ the family was. Blood could trust blood. Once the family began accumulating wealth, Armand created the book.” She skimmed her fingers down the page. “That way, no ambitious woman could make a false claim. The money, power, and prestige remained where intended. But that control has a price. All natural Malfoys must be virgins on their Midsummer marriage. The ones who aren’t…” She tapped the entry in question.

“They aren’t married,” Hermione said. Her eyes widened as an idea dawned.

“Legally, yes. Magically, no. Their marriages are recorded, as required. The natural Malfoy loses no privileges, but neither their spouse nor their children can reside within the manor. Upon the natural Malfoy’s death, all familial association ends.”

“So Malfoy… Rather, Draco, he’s a…”

“If he isn’t, then the Beltane rite won’t work.”

“That’s it,” Hermione muttered. She looked up at Narcissa, whose blue eyes shone with cold cunning, and made a second connection. Narcissa didn’t want their wedding to go through any more than Hermione did, and she was willing to risk her son’s inheritance—no, the existence of the entire Malfoy line—to avoid it.

“Why?” Hermione asked.

“I love my son. I love him more than anything or anyone else in the world. But I would rather end this family’s legacy than see him locked into a union with someone who doesn't love him as I do.”

“He would lose everything.”

“He’s a smart man. Clever. Adaptable. He’d survive, and you discredit him to think he’d do anything less.” She straightened. “Malfoys cannot be forced into marriage, Ms. Granger, despite what the Ministry may intend. I trust you’ll find a way to end this farce before it begins.”

“Mother?”

Both women turned to see Draco at the library’s threshold. How much had he overheard?

Narcissa recovered first and swept toward him with a benign smile. “Girl talk,” she said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Send an elf if you need me.” Draco waited until she was out of sight to approach Hermione, who remained the table, still processing what she had learned.

“Girl talk?”

“I know the answer.”

Draco sighed and sat beside her. “I was wondering if you would find it first. I suppose Mother couldn’t wait.”

“You knew?”

“Yes. My father explained the consequences of premarital relations before third year. It was quite the conversation.”

“It’s barbaric.”

“I’m sure Mother would say it’s tradition. Funny how interchangeable those two words can be, isn’t it?”

“But it would solve the problem.”

Draco’s eyes hardened. “No.”

“It’s simple.”

“Because women are just throwing themselves at me.”

“You could find someone.”

“Who, you?”

Hermione blushed. “_No_. But maybe—”

“We’re not workshopping this, Granger.”

“We know it would work.”

“My body, my choice,” Draco said.

His tone left no room for argument, and indeed, Hermione could think of no fitting counter.

She dropped her gaze. “Okay, we’ll find something else.”

“Yes, we will.”

“She’ll be disappointed.”

“When isn’t she? Mother might be willing to end the line with me, but I won’t have that on my conscience.”

“Even if it means a loveless marriage?”

“We’re not getting married.” He sounded more confident than she felt.

“Right. Well, blood may be out, but I think I have something on timing.” She passed him her list. “All of the official Malfoy marriages occurred on Beltane.”

“Makes sense,” Draco said, scanning the page. “Fertility, start of summer.”

“What if we try it on Samhain?” He frowned in thought; Hermione continued. “It’s the opposite of Beltane. The end of harvest, the start of winter…”

“It’d be an inauspicious start, at any rate,” Draco conceded, looking up from the list.

“But it also cuts our time down. October is three months away, and we can’t rely solely on an unlucky wedding date to counter the rite.”

After a beat of silence, Draco spoke. “Weekends aren’t enough.”

Hermione’s stomach sank. Three months. Ninety days. How much time _was_ enough?

“I’ll come here when I’m done at the Ministry,” she said. “We can work from five until ten.”

“What about your social life?”

She gave him a weak smile.

“What about _my_ social life?” he asked.

That earned him a laugh, and he smiled.

It looked good on him.

* * *

_August 19_

Hermione hefted her bag onto an empty library table. It landed with a thud, a sound she associated with long-sought answers.

“These are on loan from the Ministry archives,” she said. “If we can’t find something about the binding spell in one of these books, then I don’t know where it would be.”

Draco began pulling the texts from her bag.

“_Nuptial Knots and How to Tie Them. A Brief History of Magical Mating_.” He arched a pale brow, and a wicked grin curled his lips. “What exactly are we researching, Granger?”

Hermione blushed. She’d been doing a lot of that lately, and their intensified meeting schedule was not helping the matter.

Draco was attractive, and she had come to terms with that being one of the universe’s inviolable truths. Symmetrical features, broad shoulders, nice teeth, intriguing eyes… Her body’s chemistry was beyond her control, and Draco was like a catalyst, setting each system spinning into activity.

But the world contained plenty of attractive people; that didn’t mean she wanted to marry them.

No, the truly unfortunate part was that Draco had a personality. And she _liked_ it. Far more than the arrogant, ignorant boy she’d known, Draco was clever and cunning, sweet and sarcastic. He made her laugh, and seemed to think she was funny, something neither Harry nor Ron had ever admitted. Smirks and sneers she could handle; his derision was _de rigueur_. But he seemed beyond that now. Though she could not quantify the change, could not pinpoint its start, she was certain of its presence. If not in him, then certainly in herself.

It made her wonder if there were worse people to be stuck with until death did they part.

His grin faltered when he noticed her stare. “Okay, Granger?”

“Fine,” she said. She pulled _Bindings and Bondage_ toward her, trying not to think about its implications and failing miserably.

* * *

_September 19_

Hermione swirled her Malbec, a half-eaten piece of chocolate cake set before her.

“Why won’t Narcissa tell us the spell?”

“She did,” Draco said. He pulled the plate over and gathered a forkful of rich frosting. “Cut hands clasped, handfasted by a ribbon of golden light.”

“Golden light…” She leaned forward and took the fork, nicking the bite of cake before handing it back. “Does that sound like an Unbreakable Vow to you?”

“I’ve never seen one performed before.”

“Me neither, though I’ve read all about them.”

“I’m sure you have.” A smile tugged at his lips. He gathered another bite of cake and leaned back when he saw Hermione eyeing his fork. “You can have the next bite.”

“It’s my cake.”

“Technically, it’s _my_ cake, as it’s from _my_ kitchens.”

“Technically, it’s _my_ cake, as it’s _my_ birthday.”

He handed the fork over with an expression of great personal sacrifice, though she saw the amusement lurking beneath his aggrieved exterior.

“Isn’t the Vow’s bond made through fire?” he asked while she chewed.

She passed the utensil back over. “I think so, but the marriage binding isn’t as serious as that.”

Metal clinked against china as Draco set the fork down. “What do you mean?”

His serious tone drew her gaze from the window—not like she could see much, it was after eight and darkness was falling fast.

“It’s not life or death,” she clarified.

“That doesn’t mean it’s not serious.”

“The Unbreakable Vow can _kill_ you.”

“So can infidelity,” he said. “It just takes longer.”

He didn’t rise to the bait of her deadpan stare. She straightened and set down her wine.

“You’re serious.”

“And here I thought loyalty was a Gryffindor trait.”

“I suppose we’ve never discussed it,” she said, suddenly somber despite the wine running through her veins and clouding her judgment. “What happens if we fail?”

“We won’t.”

“If we _do_. What are your expectations?”

“Are we level-setting again?”

She ignored his attempt at levity. “Draco.”

His eyes flicked away. “Let’s not do this tonight,” he said.

“You brought it up.”

“I didn’t mean it to derail the evening.”

“I’d rather it ruin an evening than the rest of our lives.”

Draco sighed, but his gaze was steady when their eyes finally met. “It’s not my place to tell you how to live your life. You make your own choices.”

Cold burned away the final remnants of the wine’s hazy warmth. He expected her to cheat on him. At some level, he had already come to terms with it.

“What will you choose?” She knew the answer, but wanted to hear him say it.

He twirled the stem of his empty glass. “I’ll honor my vows.”

* * *

_September 22_

Hermione’s eyes ached from reading. She had pursued the Unbreakable Vow lead and was deep into theory, her head spinning both from the material and its implications. Could the answer really be so simple?

“You okay?”

She looked up, squinting Draco into focus. A headache bloomed at the base of her skull.

“I’ve seen Arithmancy problems less complicated. Where have you been?”

“Talking to Mother. She told me where the ceremony is held. Want to come?”

“Sure, I need the break.”

Her back popped as she stood and stretched, and she fell into a slow pace beside him. They wound through the manor in silence. The ancient home had seemed forbidding at first, haunted by memory, echoing with screams, and filled with the ghosts of Dark Magic. And maybe it still was: nothing they had done in the past three months had changed the place’s history. But she had become accustomed to it. The opulence no longer bothered her. The gilt and antiques became as family photos or travel souvenirs, similar to what her parents had used to decorate their house. It was his family’s history, except where most families wrote it over the course of a single lifetime, the Malfoys had been curating it for centuries.

As refined as the manor was, its gardens were wild. They had barely stepped outside when a gust of wind bit through her jumper and tore reflexive tears from her eyes. Draco winced and looked back at her.

“All right?”

“Should’ve brought a scarf.”

He grinned and twirled his wand. A Slytherin scarf, banded with green and silver stripes, materialized before him. She laughed as he wrapped it around her neck, bundling her to the chin. He stepped back to admire his work, and his eyes softened.

“Well?” she prompted, shifting her weight.

“Not bad, Granger. You would’ve been a fair Slytherin. Not the best,” he added, “but not bad.”

She rolled her eyes and nudged him with her shoulder.

“Please, I would’ve been an _amazing_ Slytherin.”

“With the proper mentor, perhaps.” He looped her arm through his and walked them toward the forest on the property’s southeastern edge.

“Whose idea was it to get around the Ministry’s marriage law?”

“Ah, but would you have been so motivated if not for me?”

Another gust of wind stole her answer, and they braced against it, fighting the frequent gales until they reached the forest.

They entered on an unpaved trail wide enough for two across. The trees sheltered them from the force and noise of the wind, but above them, the canopy rustled. Yellowing leaves, torn prematurely from their moorings, drifted to the ground, a colorful start to the autumn leaf litter.

“How far is it?”

“Not sure. Mother gave me a south-southeast bearing and told me I’d know it when I saw it.” He unlinked their arms and set his wand on his palm. “_Point Me_.”

The wand spun, its tip indicating southeast, and they turned down the proper path.

“What were you working on?”

“The Unbreakable Vow.”

“Still?”

She nodded. “I couldn’t shake the feeling that the binding spell Narcissa described is related to it. And then there’s something she said to me: Malfoys cannot be forced into marriage. It got me thinking: what if that’s true?”

His brows knit together in thought. “Explain.”

“Well, from what I’ve read on theory, the Unbreakable Vow’s strength comes from the intentionality of the participants. Not the binder; they don’t matter, they’re just a vehicle for the magic. But the _bound_, the two people actually making the promise, need to mean it. They need to be sure. Otherwise, the spell won’t take, and the casting will fail.”

“Fail?”

“The ties fizzle out before they can sink in. Unbreakable Vows are serious magic, and accepting a Vow you’re unsure of, or one you know you can’t or won’t keep, would mean death. What if the magic knows that and only binds those who want to be bound?”

“Magic isn’t sentient.”

“No, but it does respond to intention. The Cruciatus Curse, for example. For it to have the desired effect, you have to mean it upon casting.”

Draco was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “It can’t be that easy.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s obvious.”

“Is it? It took us three months to get here, and we’re exceptionally clever.”

“_We_?”

She smiled up at him. “You have your moments.”

Draco grinned, but his expression fell when he looked ahead. Hermione followed his gaze, and they both came to a stop.

The path had brought them to the edge of a wide clearing, a perfect circle cut from the middle of the dense forest. A crude stone altar stood at its center. A chill sped down Hermione’s spine.

“This is it.” Draco ventured a few steps into the clearing. “It’s silent,” he said over his shoulder.

Despite her instincts, Hermione crossed the boundary line. The canopy’s rustling vanished. She could hear herself breathe, could hear her own heart beat. And something else. A rushing that wasn’t wind. A thousand voices whispering inside her head, a noise so great she felt swamped by it. The clearing began to tilt; it wanted her gone.

“I feel… Strange.”

“This place is ancient.” Draco skimmed his hand over the stone altar, careful not to touch it. “I can feel the magic, even from here.” He looked back at her. “Hermione? Hermione!”

He was a giant towering over her, had grown a thousand feet, and she looked up at him as a mortal might look upon a vengeful god. He bent over her, cupped her face with his hands, and everything leveled, her perspective returning with a dizzying rush. She sat up—had she fallen?—and Draco backed away, letting her go. The vertigo returned. She grasped for him, and he took her hand.

“What the hell?” she asked, voice tremulous.

“Are you okay?”

She shook her head. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I turned around, and you were flat on the ground.” He brought a hand to her face again and brushed his thumb across her cheek. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Hermione closed her eyes and let herself breathe. Let herself breathe _him_. Draco had become so familiar to her over the past months. She felt like she could identify him by smell alone–sandalwood, spice, and the fresh autumn air.

She opened her eyes, surprised to find him staring. His gaze was intent, focused, as if he were trying to catalogue her every feature.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“Everything. The match, the choices I made, the way I treated you before. This isn’t where you should be.”

She tried to smile. Except that sitting on sacred ground with a man she’d grown to appreciate and respect over a summer’s worth of research felt exactly where she should be. It felt right in a way that had nothing to do with the influence of old magics or wand core compatibility.

“Where should I be instead?”

“At the Ministry, working your way to the top. With some other man—someone you like.”

“I like you.”

His lips quirked, but it was a sad expression; the humor he intended didn’t reach his eyes. “Someone you like enough to marry, someone you can build a future with.”

She bit her tongue, but the distraction did nothing to stop the sting in her eyes.

“And where would you be?”

“Alone, as the Ministry no doubt intended, serving my house arrest.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“Mother would’ve kept me company.”

Hermione choked out a laugh and used the excuse to dash her tears away.

“Do you think this will work?” she asked.

“If you’re right—if the magic will be weakest on Samhain and if our intentions matter—then yes, it should work.”

“Do you think I’m right?”

“I do.”

“Do you want to marry me?”

A second of hesitation. Then, his answer: “No.”

A sob lodged in her throat. She had sworn to herself, and to him, that this wouldn’t happen. That her feelings wouldn’t change, that she wouldn’t fall in love with him, that the ending to this unexpected detour would be an amicable parting of ways. If her intentions mattered, then this was the worst possible outcome. It could jeopardize the failure of the spell. It could cause it to actually _work_.

She couldn’t be in love with him.

She needed to end it.

“Hermione?” He looked concerned; had her heartbreak been that obvious? She took a deep breath, tried to find composure.

“Yes?”

“Do you want to marry me?”

She held her breath. Ignored the pain in her chest. Forced her expression into something resembling neutral. Only when she felt sure did she let the control slip, and then just long enough to lie: “No.”

* * *

_September 28_

Ron Weasley leaned a hip on her desk, arms crossed.

“I can’t believe you’re going through with it.”

“It’s not like I have much choice.” Hermione didn’t bother looking up from the piece of legislation she was reviewing. They had had this conversation before, and it never lead to a different conclusion. He couldn’t believe it; she had no choice. But it was _Malfoy_; but she had no _choice_.

Except that she did have a choice, and Draco was far from the worst one she could make.

The problem now was convincing herself otherwise. Draco didn’t want to marry her. Regardless of how she felt, it was unfair to trap him into a one-sided romance. He deserved better.

“We could get you out of the country,” Harry Potter suggested. This was new; she looked up from her scroll. “I’m serious,” he continued. “It’s clear you don’t want to do this. A batch of Polyjuice, a few of my hairs… You could get out of the United Kingdom, at least. What countries don’t have extradition laws?”

“Yemen?” Ron supplied.

Hermione wrinkled her nose and turned back to her parchment. “I don’t want to go to _Yemen_.”

“Would you rather marry Malfoy?”

“It’s a tough choice.”

Hermione’s heart lurched to a stop, and she turned to see Draco standing behind Harry. She dropped her quill and stood, the movement too abrupt to be casual.

“Draco. What are you doing here?”

“_Draco_?” Ron muttered. “When did he become anything but _Ferret_?”

They both ignored him.

“I needed to file the marriage license for next month. Mother had a prior engagement, so the Ministry gave me a special dispensation for the day.”

Harry stepped in front of her. “And you thought you’d just drop by unannounced?”

Time seemed to reverse itself as Draco lifted his chin, assuming the caricature of the boy they’d all known and loathed.

“That’s none of your business,” he said with a sneer.

“Hermione’s my friend, which makes it my business.”

Hermione put a restraining hand on his arm. “Harry…”

“If you really cared about her, you’d petition the Ministry to end this bloody Marriage Law. But I don’t see you calling any press conferences, do I?”

Ron stood, inserting himself into Draco’s personal space.

“Why don’t you sod off?” Ron suggested.

“Oh, stop it.” Hermione pushed her way past Harry and Ron, forcing them back. “Give us a minute.” It was not a request, and both men knew well enough not to argue. Hermione shut her office door.

“Sorry about that,” she said, offering Draco a seat.

He took it. “I don’t know what you see in them.” The ghost of a sneer still twisted his features.

Sometimes, neither did she. “They’re worried,” she said, trying for a dilute version of the truth.

“I don’t blame them,” he admitted. He reached into his chest pocket and withdrew a scroll. “Our license,” he said, handing it over. “You need to sign it.”

“Oh.” Her heart sank. Of course he was visiting her for a reason. It was too much to hope that he wanted to see her. That he had missed her after a week apart.

She unrolled the parchment. The license contained their basic information: full name, date of birth, current address, occupation. Hermione’s heart gave a painful squeeze as she saw her parents’ names—their real names—next to their Australian address. Next was the rite’s proposed date and details. Laid out in plain, bureaucratic language, the ceremony sounded about as significant as the instructions for a first-year Potions brew. At the very bottom was a space for the date and her signature. Draco had already signed.

“This is it, then,” she said.

He stared at the scroll and nodded. “This is it.”

She picked up the quill, rolled it in her fingers, but could not bring herself to touch nib to parchment. Not yet.

Maybe this _was_ it. Maybe this was when she told him how she felt, how she _really_ felt, and made the stakes clear. Because he deserved a clear picture before the rite, didn’t he? He deserved to know the odds, to understand the character of the woman who would be bound to him in a month.

“Hermione?” She looked up at him, heart racing. “I need to tell you—”

A fist pounded on her door. “We have a meeting in five minutes,” Ron shouted. “Urgent. Robards just called it.”

The moment passed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Hermione signed her name with the same, neat script she had used since childhood. The scroll rolled and sealed itself. “I have to go.”

She stood and made for the door. He took her wrist before she could open it. They stood like that for a moment, frozen, until Ron pounded the door again. Then Draco leaned in, ignoring her flinch, and pressed a light kiss to her cheek.

“See you in a month,” he said.

* * *

_October 31_

Hermione Apparated to the gates of Malfoy Manor at half past eleven p.m. The wrought iron gleamed, sharp and menacing in the waxing moon’s faint light. Goosebumps prickled her skin. The night was cool, and her warming charm had not been cast with her full concentration. There was too much else to think about.

She had not seen him for most of October. There had been no need. They had done the research, had formulated their plan, and, per the terms they had set in what now felt like a lifetime ago, their partnership lasted only as long as it took to find a plausible solution.

The crack of his Apparition rent the night’s silence, and he waved open the gates, a pale wraith stepping from the darkness. He lit his wand, held it high, and the ghastly effect dissipated.

“I expected you to Floo,” he said in greeting.

Hermione blushed; she should have written him about the change in protocol. But it had been so long, and she was trying to convince herself of the necessity of space. Distance was what they wanted. What they had been working the entire time to achieve.

At least he sounded annoyed. She could work with that.

“I wanted to inconvenience you, seeing as how you’ve kept me up so late.”

“You can thank our government for that.” He stepped closer, and the circle of wand-light fell across her dress. He paused, and she ducked her head, feeling suddenly and terribly self-conscious.

She hadn’t known what to wear and settled on a tea-length ivory dress with vintage lace, a modest scoopneck, and half-sleeves. Knowing she would have to contend with the forest trail, she had opted for ivory ballet flats. It was simple, almost plain, but Draco seemed oddly gobsmacked.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thanks.” She took his proffered arm.

“Mother’s already at the altar.”

“We still have thirty minutes.”

“She wanted to give us time.”

“Time to what?”

“Flee the country,” Draco supplied, with a sideways look. “Get our stories straight. Make our peace with the gods.”

“Yemen is out,” she said. “But I’ve heard that Bali is beautiful.”

Draco grimaced. “I sunburn too easily. How’s Canada?”

“Acceptable, but only if we’re lakefront.”

He squeezed her arm to his side. “Is it wrong to admit I’ll miss this?”

Hermione’s heart gave a ferocious beat. She tried to keep her voice steady. “Just owl me. I’m more than happy to tell you when you’re being foolish.”

Their conversation trailed off as they walked through the manor, and she found herself becoming prematurely nostalgic. There was so much of the old house still left to explore, and now she might never have the chance.

“Do you need anything before we head out? A glass of water? A sedative?”

Her laugh was too weak to be genuine. “I’m fine, thanks,” she answered, and they stepped back out into the crisp October night.

“What will we tell the Ministry?” she asked.

“Mother performed the rite, something went wrong. No need to go into detail. Besides, she’s still ignorant of what we’re doing.”

“Well—”

“Ignorant enough,” he corrected. “I wanted to know what to expect, you wanted to take a deep-dive in my family’s history. We’re covered.”

“And if it goes sideways?”

“It won’t.”

Again, the confidence. It damn near broke her.

The nighttime noises quieted upon their entrance into the forest. Nothing but the soft scrape of their shoes against leaves and the occasional crack of a dry twig. Draco pulled her close as they reached the clearing’s edge; she wondered if he could feel her tremble.

“I won’t let you go,” he told her. “You’ll be okay.”

She nodded, and they stepped across the boundary. Narcissa waited for them, backlit by a Lumos charm she had set upon the altar. They stopped before her and waited as she looked into their eyes, then heavenward. Hermione followed her gaze. A million stars shone overhead, the night clear and still.

“Hold out your left hands.”

They obeyed. With a deft flick, Narcissa sliced horizontally along their wrists. The cuts were shallow, but blood flowed freely.

“Join hands so that your blood may mingle.”

They pressed the cuts together. Hermione’s fingers wrapped around Draco’s forearm. She could feel her pulse throbbing with his, fear and dread and excitement wound up in adrenaline. It was really happening. Narcissa set her wand upon their wrists.

“This is a marriage of equals.”

At once, a tendril of golden light snaked from her wand’s tip. It wrapped around their hands, buzzing with energy and emanating a gentle heat.

“One cannot possess the other, for you belong to yourselves.”

A second tendril of light joined the first.

“One cannot command the other, for you are both free.”

A third.

“But bound in this way, you pledge your fidelity. Your aid. Your comfort. Your protection. Your respect. Your honesty. Your trust.”

With each line came a new tendril, until their joined hands were wrapped in a cocoon of gold. Then ten filaments shimmered and pulsed, the rhythms mismatched, alternating, like each had its own heartbeat.

“Blood and bone now alike, do you so pledge?”

“I do,” Draco answered. His silver eyes shone bronze in the uncanny light. She could not look away.

“I do,” Hermione said.

The golden cocoon tightened, the heat becoming unbearable as it approached her skin. But Hermione could not break her hold. Her fingers tightened, pressing into Draco’s forearm, and she gasped as the light made contact. An instant of searing pain, a flash of blinding light, then darkness.

Hermione blinked the clearing back into focus.

Draco let go first, and Hermione felt the absence of his touch like a shade over her heart. She turned her wrist over. The cut had healed; the only evidence of its existence was a thin scar that glinted pale gold in the spelled light.

She looked at Narcissa.

“Was that… Did it work?”

Narcissa’s expression was unreadable. “You are bound,” she answered. She left before they could ask anything else.

Hermione felt the earth tilt beneath her. It hadn’t worked. All that time, all their effort, everything that they had sacrificed…

Draco’s hands gripped her shoulders, bringing her back to herself.

“Did you want to marry me?” He asked with an urgency that left her speechless. He gave her a small shake, his eyes wide, his face too close. “Hermione. Did you want to marry me?”

She had pledged him honesty. The scar on her wrist grew warm, as if in reminder.

“Yes.”

His lips crashed onto hers, his kiss punishing and possessive and too long in coming. She clung to him, knees weak, head spinning. Before she could react, he pulled away.

“I knew on your birthday that I was done for,” he said, capturing her lips once more. He left her breathless, but his kiss was like oxygen, and she perpetually drowning. “I love you,” he said. “I tried not to.”

“So did I,” she whispered against his lips. “I failed.”

“No,” he said, twining his fingers through her hair. He brought her close, pressing her body to his, holding her as if afraid he’d lose her. “No, Hermione. On this, you’ve earned top marks.”

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> “Hermione’s uncertainty had vanished the moment she set foot in Ollivander’s shop, when a box had leapt off the shelf and landed at her feet, much to the proprietor’s delight.” - According to Pottermore, vine wood wands are especially sensitive when they detect a suitable wielder, sometimes producing a magical effect when their prospective owner enters the room. Ollivander claims to have seen this happen twice, and I’d bet a Galleon that Hermione was one of those two instances. 
> 
> The marriage vow Narcissa recites is adapted from a few versions of traditional Celtic marriage vows and handfasting rituals.


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